‘It’s the face of a devil!’ said Naurung hotly. ‘He deserved to die. Over and over again. Would that I could make him suffer as he made others suffer! God will not forgive him and I, Naurung Singh, will never forgive him! But now I understand what must be done.’
He took a box of matches from his pocket and lit a small lamp, setting it on the table beside Prentice’s head. By its flickering light, it seemed for a moment that, in death, that violent man was smiling.
Naurung turned with surprising authority to Andrew.
‘Now, sahib, I beg – go back to the memsahib and to Missy Sahib and take the Commander with you. Leave me here. I am in charge of the crime scene. I will go and sit on the verandah and wait for the morning. Perhaps I may go to sleep. People are notoriously careless when they are asleep. Especially after what has happened.’
‘Andrew!’ said Joe urgently. ‘Just reflect what you’re doing! The suppression of evidence…’
‘Oh, Joe,’ said Andrew with affection, ‘you’re eternally the Good Centurion! You know I’m right. Naurung – am I right?’
‘Yes, indeed, sahib.’ He turned to Joe. ‘Think of Missy. She will wake to a tragic accident. She will not wake to the bonfire, the bloodstains, the knowledge that her father is many times a murderer. I think for her, I think not for police procedures.’
Kitty’s prophetic remark replayed in his head: ‘There are the living to consider and to me they are more important than the dead. Perhaps even more important than the truth.’ A view so opposed to his own, so at variance with his training and beliefs he could not accept it. What could be more important than the truth? But perhaps he was asking the wrong question. Shouldn’t he be asking who could be more important than the truth? And the answer was clear and immediate. Midge was. Nancy was. Andrew was.
Without further question, Joe offered Andrew his arm and they set off up the dark street together.
‘Getting a bit old for this sort of thing! Long past my bedtime. Shan’t be sorry when we can get back to normal life,’ Andrew murmured between clenched teeth as he laboured on beside Joe. ‘See Bulstrode in the morning. Not now. Give Naurung a chance to tidy up.’
‘Things as they are at the moment, I think even Bulstrode might notice something out of the ordinary had happened!’ said Joe.
They paused at the end of the drive to the Drummond bungalow to give Andrew time to get his breath and both men looked up at the sky. It was the still moment before dawn.
‘Good Lord, we’ll be hearing Reveille soon,’ said Andrew. ‘There’s a lot to arrange. Funeral for a start. I’ll talk to Neddy about it. The Greys are very good at that sort of thing. Have to notify George Jardine, I suppose… Press announcement… I take it Midge is his next of kin. This is all up to me as her trustee and Giles’ executor…’
His voice muttered on. Already his official personality was taking over from the desperate participant in the bloody doings of the night. But Joe could not yet fight his way clear. He turned and looked back down towards Curzon Street. A white mist from the river was rising, curling its way through the garden wilderness and reaching out to the bungalow. ‘The Churel,’ thought Joe. ‘She’s come to gather him in. She will have her revenge for those innocent souls. God, I’m tired!’
They stood together for a moment, lost in thought. Finally Andrew said, ‘Come on, only a few more steps! Let’s get off the street. Too embarrassing to be seen out here together, covered in blood and gaping at the moon.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saffron sky to the east was announcing dawn as Joe reached the stables. Running a hand over his face, he realised that he was both bloodstained and unshaven and to any passer-by would look disreputable and suspicious. He did the best he could; quickly plunging his head into a stable bucket and taking a towel from a nail nearby, he cleaned himself up and revived himself. He had not misjudged his man. Walking rapidly, William Somersham, punctual to the minute, came in view.
He stopped dead at the sight of Joe.
‘Sandilands!’ he said. ‘You get earlier and earlier! What brings you here? I’m riding out. Won’t you join me?’ And, looking more carefully at Joe and taking in the bloodstains, ‘What’s happened? What’s happened to you?’
‘Somersham,’ said Joe, taking him by the elbow, ‘William, there’s something you have to know.’
At once the horses began to stir uneasily and sniff the air. A moment later the smell of smoke borne on the wind off the river reached Joe’s nostrils. ‘Come with me,’ he said and led Somersham to the door. The stars were dimming, the moon hung on the horizon ahead of them. Joe pointed down towards Curzon Street.
‘Look there!’
The river mist was now swirling, shroudlike, about the bungalow. As they watched, silenced by the eeriness of the scene, a denser whiteness began to flow from the open doors and windows.
‘Good God!’ said Somersham. ‘What is this? What are you showing me? It’s fire! Is that Prentice’s house? On fire? Again? What the hell’s happening, Sandilands? I can’t believe this!’
Transfixed, they gazed on as sparks began to shoot from the roof and a yellow flame began to lick its way along the edge of the thatch. The yellow flames turned to shooting sheets of orange leaping upwards and, with an exclamation of dismay, they watched as a blood red fireball burst out from the roof and hung momentarily over the house.
‘Christ! You know I’ve seen this before, twelve years ago,’ said Somersham. ‘Surely not again!’
The rapid clamour of a bugle shattered the silence of the morning.
‘We must go down there,’ said Somersham urgently. ‘We must run!’
‘No! No, William, please listen to me. I know there’s no one alive in there. There’s something you have to know.’
As they watched, with commendable speed a horse-drawn fire engine galloped up from the infantry lines, furiously driven by a bearded Sikh and followed by the Shropshire fire picket at the double.
‘Stay, William,’ said Joe, ‘and listen to me. The last time we spoke you asked if I was getting any nearer a solution.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ said Somersham. ‘You gave me hope.’
‘I can give you more than hope now. I have the murderer.’
‘Peg’s murderer?’
‘Not only your wife – Joan Carmichael, Sheila Forbes, Alicia Simms-Warburton and – but for the mercy of God – his own daughter. It was Giles Prentice.’
‘Prentice, you say? Prentice did these foul things? And he’s still alive?’
‘No,’ said Joe. ‘Dead. He’s dead. He admitted his crimes. He would have murdered his daughter. He was shot in the act.’
Dazed, Somersham turned around and went to sit down heavily on the straw bale.
‘Prentice!’ he said. ‘But how? And why?’
‘I’ll do my best to explain,’ said Joe, patting his pockets in vain. He held out his hand. ‘Give me a cigarette, shove over and I’ll tell you.’ He joined him on the straw bale.
Carefully he laid out the whole tale of Prentice’s iniquity concluding with the words, ‘Andrew Drummond said to me, “Find him. You find him and I’ll shoot him.” I found him, though perhaps more accurately he declared himself as such people often do, unable to believe that anyone could frustrate their purpose, but it was Nancy who shot him.’
‘ Nancy! And what now?’ said William. ‘ Nancy – is she – er – all right? Is she safe? What would this be? Justifiable homicide? I hope she’s not in trouble with the law…’
‘There would be formalities to be gone through, of course, but no, I don’t think she’s in trouble with the law. My concern is not for Nancy but for Midge.’
‘Midge?’
‘Prentice’s daughter, Minette.’
‘Of course, Midge. Poor child. But look here, I say, Sandilands, Prentice’s house is on fire. The evidence will be destroyed, won’t it? Does she have to know what happened? Does she have to know her father was many times a murderer? Wouldn’t it be possible to keep this knowledge from her?’